


I Will

by Dani_Schomer, pessimisticprose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Polish Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:57:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1431022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dani_Schomer/pseuds/Dani_Schomer, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pessimisticprose/pseuds/pessimisticprose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where everyone's time to live is declared by a red clock ticking over their head, you never know how much time you have left. </p><p>The only thing that is certain is this moment, and Stiles plans on living it to the fullest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pessimisticprose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pessimisticprose/gifts).



> Okay, this wasn't originally my idea. Some guy wrote a similar story on Tumblr, and I had my friend write this. So enjoy!
> 
> edit: I'm the friend that wrote this! (pessimisticprose) Check out my other stuff! xo

He didn’t know when he’d die–he’d never seen his number, and no one had told him what it was. Which was how it was supposed to go. No one was supposed to tell each other the number on the the blinking red clock that counted down until their death, but some people paid others to tell them. It was a billion dollar industry.

  
Stiles could remember being young and hearing his father talk on the phone, but he could only catch some of the Polish words. Sick. Two months. Claudia. Stiles knew something was wrong with his mom–she could barely move her right arm without it twitching. She couldn’t write anymore. She’d try to help Stiles pick out an outfit and she’d forget all of her ideas. Sometimes she forgot Stiles’ name and she’d break down crying and just hug him for minutes on end, apologizing and crying and murmuring things in Polish.

  
Sometimes, very, very late at night, Stiles would walk down the hallway to his parents’ room and hear his mom softly crying. If Stiles really strained, he could make out his father’s quiet, reassuring words. Words of how he’d always love her, how everything was going to be okay. They still had some time.

  
On December 26, 2004 at 5:31 P.M., Stiles learned how to hate the blinking red number above everybody’s heads.

***

Stiles met Scott (sixty eight years, one month, two hundred and three days, twenty-one hours, one minute, and twenty-seven seconds) in fifth grade. He tried as hard as he could to ignore the numbers, broadcasting when his classmates would die. That year, he also met Lydia Martin (fifty nine years, eleven months, one hundred and nine days, three hours, thirty-six minutes, and ten seconds). When he vowed to marry her, she had fifty nine years, eleven months, one hundred and nine days, three hours, thirty-six minutes, and nine seconds to live.

***

When Scott was bitten, he had sixty three years left. The more Stiles delved into the folklore, the more surprised he was that Scott still had that much time. It was rather impressive.

  
He met Derek (thirteen years, even) a week after Scott was bitten.

***

Derek had eleven years, six months, forty days, three hours, fifteen minutes, and fifty-two seconds until he died. Stiles had ten years, six months, forty days, three hours, fifteen minutes, and fifty-two seconds to tell Derek he loved him. Stiles had ten years, six months, forty days, three hours, and fifty-two minutes until he died with Derek.

  
Figuratively speaking, of course. He knew he’d die when the time bomb above his head ran out. He wondered about it sometimes–how long it’d be until he’d die, if he’d have children first (obviously not, but maybe he could adopt), if he’d die before his dad (thirty years, four months, one day, sixteen hours, fifty-six minutes, and three seconds), and sometimes even–

  
“Stiles, we have an actual problem. Stop fucking daydreaming and help us,” Derek snarled.

  
“Sorry, sorry.” Stiles pulled the pen cap out of his mouth (gross) and started flipping through the Polish bestiary they’d found a few days ago. He’d been working on the translation since.

  
“Just find the part about the chimera and stop pretending like you’re actually doing something.” Derek glowered at Stiles.

  
“Oh, shut the hell up,” Lydia snapped. “It’s not like it’s a big deal. We’re all burned out; nothing’s getting done. We should just go home and reconvene tomorrow.”

  
Derek raised a dark eyebrow to the challenge, but Isaac (forty-nine years, eleven months, sixteen days, one hour, twelve minutes, and fifty-nine seconds) stood as well and everyone silently filed out. Stiles tried to follow, but Derek pulled him back.

  
“No, stay for a minute.”

  
“Derek–”

  
“It’s important.” He cocked his head the the side, and when twenty seconds went by, he said, “They can’t hear us now.”

  
“Awesome. So they can’t tell you about yourself for–”

  
“I’m sorry.”

  
Stiles reeled back, “What the hell? Who are you?”

  
Derek quirked his eyebrow again (huh, who knew the big guy was that expressive; Stiles was just looking at the wrong facial feature all along) and said, “Do I look like someone unfamiliar?” The corner of his mouth ticked up.

  
Stiles grinned. “Holy shit. You just told a joke, didn’t you?”

  
“I am capable of compassion.”

  
“Why did you– Derek. Did you have me stay just to say you were sorry?”

  
Derek’s face shut down, but he said, “Yeah.”

  
“That’s actually awesome,” Stiles took a step closer and he smiled up at Derek. “Thanks, big guy.”

  
“Go home and get some sleep,” Derek commanded gently. “You look exhausted.”

  
Stiles laughed, “The concern is appreciated, but I have finals to study for. I’m not going to sleep for the next week.” He backed away. “The coffee pot’s going to love me. See ya ‘round, Derek.”

  
“If you need anything–” Derek trailed off.

  
“Yeah, I know.”

  
Stiles stepped out of the loft and took a few deep breaths. What the hell just happened?

  
(The next time he saw Derek, he was even more closed off than usual. Stiles didn’t push anything, and Derek eventually went back to normal. It hurt to know that Derek was uncomfortable even being civil with Stiles.)

***

Maia Reynolds (twelve hours, three minutes, and forty-two minutes) was one of the most invisible girls at Beacon Hills High. She was so invisible that even Stiles didn’t know who she was before today. Today, though? Today she was sitting with Lydia and a few other popular girls at lunch. Jesse Maxon (twenty-two years, three months, one hundred and thirty-six days, six hours, twenty minutes, and twenty seconds) gave her his number (which Stiles thought was a sick, sick thing to do), but if it made her happy...

  
“I don’t want that,” Stiles said suddenly. Scott and Isaac looked up at him. “When my time runs out. I don’t want everyone to pretend they like me because they think it’ll make my last day better.”

  
“I think it’s just what everyone does. No one wants to know they’re going to die,” Isaac replied. He took a bite of his sandwich and said, “I certainly don’t.”  
“I won’t let the number define me,” Stiles said. “I’m going to change something before I die.”

  
Scott winced, “Stiles, you’ve already changed things.”

  
“But imagine, I still have time! I can change things. I really, really can.”

  
Scott and Isaac shared a look that Stiles decided not to read into.

***

On Stiles’ eighteenth birthday, Derek kissed him. It wasn’t a particularly suggestive kiss, nor was it too rough (because, well, they were in the hallway and the pack and the sheriff were in the living room), but Derek’s hands on Stiles’ cheeks were warm and his lips were desperate. Stiles groaned into his mouth and sagged against him. Thousands of scenarios had been through Stiles’ mind since he turned seventeen, but nothing compared to this.

  
Derek pulled back and muttered, “We should go back to your party.”

  
“Please don’t say this was a mistake in two hours,” Stiles whispered.

  
Derek’s eyes softened. “You’re not a mistake.”

***

He started training to be the Emissary of the McCall-Hale pack two weeks after he turned eighteen. He decided to cram as much as he could into the summer before he went to UCLA. Only one month into his training, Deaton proclaimed that he knew enough to come with him for a week to negotiate a treaty with another Emissary and help with a feral werewolf.

  
Derek was extremely worried about his safety, of course.

  
“Derek, calm down,” Stiles laughed. “If my number isn’t within the next week, then I’ll be fine.” Derek immediately tensed up, and Stiles swallowed thickly. “It’s not, right?”

  
“No. It isn’t,” Derek murmured, burying his face into Stiles’ neck.

  
“Then this isn’t goodbye,” Stiles said cheerfully. “I’ll be back.”

***

It did do without a hitch, except for the whole feral werewolf getting loose and attacking Stiles. He only had a broken arm, and it wasn’t even his dominant arm, but Derek was flipping his shit. He actually drove all the way to Arizona when he found out (with Scott, because Scott was a huge sap) and almost killed the feral himself. Stiles held him back (with his good arm) and promised him he was fine.

  
He got awesome sex the next few nights.

***

Things finally settled down in Beacon Hills about a year after Derek and Stiles started dating. His training was completed (in a whirlwind time, compared to most other Emissaries; it usually took years and years) and Stiles woke up on Tuesday and he felt great.

  
He’s never felt better.

  
Derek woke him up with kisses (and a spectacular blow job that had Stiles fisting the sheets and almost sobbing for Derek). He met up with Scott at the cafe for lunch, and Scott even picked up the tab. He translated some of the Czechoslovakian scripts they’d received last week. The pack had stopped by after a run and Stiles managed to talk to them all for twenty minutes before they had to leave again, and then he met up with Derek again. (And by met up with, he means they basically cuddled and Derek said he loved him into his neck about twelve times.) It had been a pretty good day.

  
At 8:37 P.M., Hunters invaded the preserve. Stiles grabbed his gun and his stashes of powder and right before the inevitable battle (they’d been trying to negotiate but the hunters just kept retaliating with violence), Derek pulled Stiles to him and kissed his jawline, his pulse-point, his forehead. Then, he placed a kiss on his lips.

  
Stiles felt his heart sink into his stomach.

  
“No,” he breathed. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

  
“Stiles,” Derek said, voice pained.

  
“You better fucking listen to me, Derek,” Stiles hissed, “You have time left, okay? Not a shit ton of time, like Scott, but you have time. You’re not going to die today. Don’t even get that into your head, okay? No one’s going to die tonight. We all have time.”

  
Derek winced. “If you say so.” Stiles kissed his cheek and Derek said, “I love you."

“I love you, too. So much.”

“Go try to not get yourself killed.”

“I’m not going to die, Derek. We all have time left!”

***

At 9:01 P.M., Stiles felt something sharp slam into his chest. His breath swooshed out of his lungs and he braced himself against a tree. Scott let out a deathly roar and he went berserk, slashing at the Hunters that only had several seconds left on their clocks.

  
He sunk down to the forrest floor. Derek was at his side in a flash, hands flurrying all over Stiles, but not actually doing anything.

  
“It wasn’t you. It was me all along, wasn’t it?” Stiles breathed.

  
“You have forty-five seconds left,” Derek said, voice cracking on ‘seconds’.

  
“That’s why they sped up my training. I wasn’t ready, they just wanted me to think I had accomplished something.”

  
“Stiles, no. Don’t think like that now.”

  
“It’s true,” Stiles murmured. He leaned his head against Derek’s shoulder. “I thought you thought you were going to die. But all along–”

  
“I love you,” Derek whispered against his temple. He pressed a rough kiss there. “I always have.”

  
“You guys didn’t tell me I was going to die because you all knew that’s what I wanted. That’s why you were all subtly nice. That’s why Lydia was almost in tears earlier.” He laughed, but wheezed a second later. “I’ll love you forever,” Stiles gently said. “Tell my dad that, too?”

  
“I will,” Derek said. “Ten seconds.”

  
“Tell Deaton he’s a dick. Tell Scott I’m sorry I didn’t catch his pudding in sixth grade.”

  
The edges of Stiles’ vision swam, and the last thing he heard Derek say was, “I will.”

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah. Really depressing. I cried. No shame. Again, I hope you liked it. Thanks for reading! :D


End file.
